The Cloak
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: A dark specter attends the Miner's Day festival. He is every bit as besotted with Belle as his Master. (Set post-'Lost Girl')


One autumn afternoon, while browsing in the library with her father, Grace had wistfully recalled the previous Miner's Day festival.

"It was so beautiful, Miss Belle! We lost power, but we lit the entire town with candles! One of the nuns…or rather, one of the fairies…gave Henry and me free candied apples, and we walked all the way to the docks with our flashlights to eat them…"

Grace quiets, thinking of Henry.

"They will find him, sweetheart, just like your father found you." Miss Belle sounds so certain. And it isn't the false reassurance of an adult who doesn't want to be bothered by the fears of a child. Miss Belle has _faith._ It's one of the reasons Grace loves spending time in the Storybrooke Library. That, and Miss Belle always helps her select exactly the right book, each story better than the last.

"I don't think the fairies are planning anything this year," Jefferson muses, casting a sidelong look at Belle, "but that doesn't mean we can't have our own small celebration."

And that is how this evening's extravagant street fair-cum-masquerade came to be.

Glowing lanterns hang from bare tree branches and shine on every windowsill. Hundreds of twinkling lights crisscross Main Street. The door of Granny's Diner is propped open, and merrymakers walk in and out, enjoying hot apple cider, generous slices of Granny's famous chocolate cream pie, and an open bar.

Tables line the street, also lit by lanterns, where the townspeople have deposited their potluck offerings: homemade candy, cookies, noisemakers, giant bowls of fruit punch, and elaborate masks made by the children of Storybrooke Elementary, all free for the taking.

Belle strolls arm-in-arm with Ruby through the happy throng. They are slowly making their way toward a small shrine that has sprung up in front of the ice cream parlor. On a wooden bench, children have propped pictures of Snow White and Henry, along with crayon massages wishing them a safe journey home from Neverland. Favorite stuffed animals sit solemnly, holding little notes. Adults have added pictures of Charming and their own scribbled prayers. There is even a photograph of Emma with her parents.

There are no "safe return" messages for Regina or Rumplestiltskin. Next door, the pawn shop is dark and shuttered. The 'Closed' sign hangs in the window, untouched.

Belle pulls one of Rumple's colorful silk handkerchiefs from her coat pocket and presses it to her lips. "Come back to me, love," she whispers. Ruby squeezes her arm, and Belle allows the crumpled fabric to flutter to the bench with the rest of the tributes. They stand for a moment in silence, reading the notes.

"I think it's time for some music," Ruby declares at last, snatching two sequined dominos from a nearby table and holding one out to her friend.

"You know, I think you're absolutely right." Belle smiles a small, brave smile. They slip on their glittering masks and weave their way back into the crowd.

Musicians have begun to fiddle and drum near a large bonfire in the center of the town square. Belle and Ruby stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the enthusiastic dancers: Grumpy is doing his best to keep time with a giggling Nova. Grace has placed her small feet atop her father's, and her arms are slung happily around his neck. Granny and Geppetto are dancing a lively polka, putting the younger revelers to shame.

"Shall we?" Ruby bows with a courtly little flourish and offers her hand to Belle.

"Most certainly!" Belle replies, allowing herself to be led out onto the trampled grass. Ruby's arm encircles her waist, and they count time together before springing into an energetic jig. Ruby leads well, and soon Belle is dizzy, breathless, and giggling.

"Ladies, might I cut in?" A man with sandy blond hair and a black domino holds out a hand to Ruby, smiling a devilish, dimpled smile. "Please do! I need a bit of a rest." Belle moves off to the side, watching Ruby whirl away on the arm of the Doctor. Still grinning, she recalls the one and only instance she convinced Rumple to dance.

_One evening, during her third month in the Dark Castle, Belle discovered Rumplestiltskin shared her fondness for riddles._

_She had come across a rather silly one in her book and read it aloud to him. Rumple had tossed off the answer with a titter, not bothering to look up from his spinning._

_"Too easy, hmm?" Belle had laughed. "Well, I suppose if I'd lived many hundreds of years, I would also prefer a high degree of difficulty."_

_She had offered up another, which he also answered, but this time with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a quick glance in her direction._

_"I'll tell you what…" Belle stood, laying aside her book, pleased to have captured his attention. "I'll offer you a wager, Rumplestiltskin." His wheel stopped spinning. "If I ask a riddle you cannot answer, then I name my forfeit."_

_"And when I answer correctly?" he had asked, "What will my forfeit be?"_

_"Absolutely anything you like. Anything within my power." "That is…that's the most ridiculous deal I've ever heard of," he huffed, and Belle had shrugged her shoulders, picked up her book, and gone back to reading._

_Five minutes passed in silence. At last he asked, "What's the riddle?"_

_Suppressing a delighted smile, Belle offered: "A man has twelve sticks in front of him, all the same size. He takes one away. Now he has nine in front of him. How is this possible?" _

_He hasn't heard this riddle before and suspects it's an original. Belle's own invention, possibly. He sees the solution immediately: the sticks spell out the word "nine." But he already has everything from Belle he could ever want: her companionship, her easy laughter, her lively conversation over meals, her concern when an arduous deal leaves him in low spirits, and, incredibly, her fond smiles. At this very moment, she is smiling at him, her blue eyes dancing. She is his windfall. His unexpected and unearned reward._

_What he truly wants — what he most desires — is to know his maid's heart. He is very nearly certain that her dearest wish is for her freedom, something he has been steeling himself to offer her anyway. Belle would never ask him for anything impossible or improper. And he needs to hear her say this. His foolish, ancient heart needs to hear her ask for her freedom._

_Rumplestiltskin feigns confusion, and if she suspects his perplexed expression is a fake, Belle never lets on._

_"Do you concede, Rumple?" she asks, nearly crowing, and at last he nods, bracing himself for farewell._

_Laughing, Belle offers the solution._

_"Ah! Of course," he replies softly. "And your…forfeit?"_

_"One dance, with you." His fingers, endlessly fidgeting, freeze midair. "One…dance?"_

_"One dance. With you. Today is my birthday," Belle explains. "Every year, on my birthday, Papa would host the most magnificent balls. I think it's likely he was trying to forget my mother's death. He would drink, and I would dance, and we would do our best to make it a happy occasion. She died in childbirth."_

_She has closed the distance between the sofa by the fireplace and his spinning wheel. He stares up at her. Belle holds out both hands: "Dance with me?"_

_Before he has fully grasped that he need not bid farewell to this radiant, entrancing, altogether seraphic girl, Belle has pulled him to his feet and is resting her warm hand upon his shoulder. She presses her palm to his, and surely she must hear how his heart is nearly thudding out of his chest. She is waiting for him to lead her._

_"But…music?" he asks, his voice wispy and small. Belle begins to hum, low in her throat, and the humming soon becomes a simple, pretty love song._

_He takes a step, and she follows, and then they are dancing a slow waltz in the space between the spinning wheel and the great windows. Belle rests her cheek upon his silk-clad shoulder, still singing softly._

_It's the happiest Rumplestiltskin has been in over three hundred years._

"I'd call tonight a smashing success. Dance with me, Belle?" Jefferson must have approached while she was lost in reverie. His smile is warm but somewhat uneasy. They haven't yet discussed her rescue from the Storybrooke asylum and why it took him 28 years to accomplish. The question hangs heavy in the air between them. But Belle is nothing if not forgiving. She nods, Jefferson bows, and he leads her by the hand toward the musicians and and bonfire.

_High in a tree, a specter watches. He has done as his Master bid and hidden the dagger where no one would ever, ever think to look for it. Now Master wants him hidden as well, but he cannot tear himself away from Master's True Love. She is dancing with the Hatter, a handsome, furtive fellow with skittering blue eyes, and Master wouldn't like it, not at all._

_Concealing himself in the gloom cast by a passing cloud, the specter makes haste to his Master's shop._

Belle drops a playful curtsy at the end of the second song, and Jefferson offers his arm and some refreshment from Granny's Diner. Before she can beg off to go find Ruby, a cloaked figure on the edge of the crowd captures her attention.

The hood of the heavy, brown cloak is pulled low, obscuring his face. Yet, there is something familiar about his height and bearing, and the similarity tugs at Belle's heart. She murmurs a low "Excuse me," to Jefferson and makes her way toward the edge of the crowd.

"Have we met?" she asks the hooded figure, and he nods slowly, silently.

"Who are you?" she whispers, her heart suddenly racing, and Belle, without thinking, reaches out to push back the hood. He catches her wrist gently in his hand, and his flesh is pitch-dark and damp and cool to the touch. From the cloak's deep pocket he draws out the chipped cup, Master's cherished talisman. He wraps Belle's fingers around it.

"Rumple?" she chokes out, reaching for him, and the spectre ducks away, not wanting to frighten the girl with his glowing, otherworldly eyes.

Instead, he leans low and imitates the reverent kiss Master pressed to the inside of his True Love's wrist after their waltz in the Dark Castle.

Belle sighs, sending ripples of elation through him. She does not shy from his mouth's touch, such as it is, chill as an autumn mist and dank besides. No, she draws him up to stand and wraps her warm arms around his shoulders, whispering, "I don't know what spell this is, but I know that it's _you._ Come away with me, sweetheart."

She leads him by the hand, surely noticing that his is not the flesh of an ordinary man (though, of course, Master hasn't been an ordinary man for many hundreds of years, and she loves Him nonetheless). Belle is guiding him to her small apartment above the library. Apparently, Master's large Victorian home proved too lonely for her.

It is strange to walk up steps when one is so used to creeping across a wall or clinging to the floor. It is strange to hold a warm hand and feel that warmth spread up one's arm and seep into one's chest.

Belle opens the apartment door, and all is dark within. The cloaked figure hangs back in the hallway. "Let me turn on a lamp," she offers and crosses the room to switch on a dim light, meant for reading in bed.

"May I see you, Rumple?" she asks, and he cannot refuse her, not anything, only crosses the room to kneel before her in order to show her that he means no harm, however ghoulish his appearance.

Belle sits on the edge of the bed and carefully draws back the brown hood, revealing his ghastly yellow eyes and the swirling blackness of his head and shoulders. He braces himself for her scream, but it doesn't come.

Instead, soft fingertips tilt his chin up, and he is staring into Belle's impossibly blue, impossibly kind eyes, scant inches from his own.

"You are…his shadow? His soul? Please, is he…alive?" He nods, careful not to lose contact with her fingers, and Belle exhales slowly, her eyes fluttering shut in relief. "He's alive. And you are his…shadow?" He nods again, and she _smiles_ at him.

"Well, you are safe here with me," Belle promises, resting her hands on his shoulders. "And we'll wait for his return together."

He belongs to her entirely then, this girl who smiles at him and offers her protection and is unafraid of his fearsome, ghoulish form. He belongs to her and will never, ever leave her side. Master wishes for him to remain hidden, and he will do his very best, but he will not be parted from Belle, not for a moment. He will curl at her feet like a loyal cur, embracing her lovely, inanimate shadow, and follow her where ever she leads.

When Belle retires to her small washroom to brush her teeth and splash water on her face, he follows, and she allows it. When she draws her blue dress up over her head, she doesn't turn away to hide her nakedness, and he marvels. When she pulls on one of Master's sleeping shirts and slips beneath the coverlet, she reaches out an arm for him to follow.

"What shall I call you, Shadow Rumple?" she asks, pulling him by the hand and motioning for him to remove his cloak. "Would you like to be 'Gold?' Your eyes are gold. Or 'Shadow?' Or would you rather simply be 'Rumple?'"

He nods eagerly at "Rumple," and Master's cloak falls to the floor beside the bed. He stoops to curl upon it, but Belle tugs him closer, twining her arms around him and drawing him into her warm nest of blankets and pillows. It is the most extraordinary sensation, to be wrapped in a woman's arms and to feel hot breath against one's neck.

"I love you, Rumple," Belle whispers, her fingertips stroking his chest and then his belly. "I love every part of you: the magician…the father…the historian…the trickster…the ordinary man…the hero…the coward. I love your passion. I love your odd jokes. I love your son. I even love your shadow."

She presses a kiss to the back of his cool, damp neck, and her lips send ripples of warmth through his dark, murky depths.

He has seen how men worship women, having followed Master to bacchanalian feasts and entertainments during their many centuries together. He desperately, ardently wishes to worship Belle, if she'll allow it.

He dissolves and sinks lower beneath the blankets. She doesn't stop him.

He sinks all the way down to her navel and hears her soft sigh. Belle is lying on her side, her long, pale legs pressed together, so he gently lifts and repositions her upper leg so that it is draped over his shoulder and back.

He is chill and damp, and he prays his peculiar touch will not displease her. Carefully tugging her cotton undergarments to one side, he presses his face, such as it is, to Belle's fragrant mound of curls and licks slowly, tentatively from her low, hot core to the sensitive little nub that lies hidden between her velvety folds.

Above the blankets, he hears a soft groan, and her upper leg tightens around his shoulders, drawing him as close as she is able.

Encouraged, he tongue darts out again, then once more, then he gently suckles at her satiny inner lips, plunging his cool tongue over and over into her wet, hot center.

When Belle's hips begin to rock against his mouth, he replaces his plunging tongue with two cool, wet fingers, and is rewarded with soft, straining noises and a muffled: _"Ah — Rumple!"_

He turns his attention to the eager bundle of nerves that sits atop her sex, flickering his tongue over and around it, giving Belle the quick rhythm her arching, trembling hips request. She has begun to shake and moan, bucking against his curling, thrusting fingers and slippery, flickering tongue, and he wants pleasure to be hers, as quickly and completely as possible.

Keeping his rhythm, he hoists her supple thigh higher and circles the opening of her tight, exquisite ass with a softly stroking finger. When she gasps out a frantic, _"Oh please!"_ he slowly slips the tip of that finger within her, feeling her muscles spasm and clench, and then Belle is calling out for him as her climax crests and peaks, jerking against him and clutching at his head and shoulders.

When the last tremor has passed, she drowsily begins to stroke his cheek and neck, and he gently replaces her now-wet cotton panties and nuzzles between her thighs. He rests like that for the rest of the night, face nestled against the damp fabric while Belle sleeps.

He belongs to her. He will never, ever leave her. He hopes Master won't be too angry. Until yesterday, he never had much use for a shadow anyhow.


End file.
